P.S. this journal is dead now.

Seasonal patterns, nights that end too soon. Something comfortable to disobey myself with; only having thoughts. Something desperate, a secret not so safe. Dangerous game.

I'm seduced with jazz, visits to parks in the dark, and feral outbursts of whims. Wants not needs because everything is alright with you in the driver seat. Steady drums or silence. I could push off sleep and not feel a thing.

Eight pawns or one king? There's value I don't know how to place, so I'm just going to ride it out. I don't want to ask anymore, I'm only going for the feeling.

A few months ago a friend, at the time, had some form of idolization of Henry Rollins and mentioned at one point that Rollins needs to always be working to keep himself sane, or something to that degree. Since then, and with my amateur exploration of 'making music,' I've come to really understand this kind of mentality. The other night I was watching an anime where one of the characters mentioned how bored she was with everything, how she wanted something epic to happen (a bit of a plot cliche.) Second character offered 'why don't you just live a normal, boring life like everyone else (paraphrased.) He then went on to say how the world needed bored people who want change, and then act upon it to help the world progress in invention and innovation. I've come to really understand this kind of mentality, not that I'm about to pursue invention. But the only work I find myself doing, or wanting to do, is something "artistic," and yet, I side with Oscar Wilde when he proclaims "All art is quite useless." Whether this is satire or not, it really doesn't matter. And so artistic production is the only thing I can do to keep myself entertained, I "do art" out of boredom mostly, and yet I am aware of how completely worthless it is. Am I wasting my time? What better is there for me to be doing?

So I'm feeling productive, yet knowing it's worthless, but I'm fairly alright with that concept because the opportunities for worthlessness are more abound, therefore, though what I may be participating is in itself worthless, it is not as worthless as a great number of things. This is, of course, all subjective, striping it of any validity, if there were any to begin with.

I end without making a point, and I began with only a loose concept anyway.

I can be content with "doing nothing," subjective by other's standards, but not when I am alone. I don't even pay mind to accomplishing something with anyone, anymore. This is at least in part due to the company I find myself keeping nowadays, but also due to a growing indifference to pretty much everything. Also shared by aforementioned company; I don't really have any strong opinions, perhaps not even any passions anymore. Something makes me wonder if a permanent nonchalance is any good way to go about living, however that indifference keeps me from caring, and also keeps me amused that I could entertain such notions. It's a bit of the same old story with my current growing pains; battling my standards against the norm. Like it could lead to any conclusion except insecurity. Yet I'm led to believe that everyone questions their own mindset against the ominous "They," so again I just find myself amused, this time at how normal the whole ordeal is. Irony is boundless, really.

My growing preference to be alone is due to a conclusive awareness of the ease of influence other's have on me, and so in an act of defiance of the Case of the Lemming, I isolate myself to be free of strings. Nietzsche said "The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself."

There's a pretty good analogy in that when I'm in the mindset to spend a night, or a weekend, making music, I don't and can't listen to anything else aside from what I've already made. Especially when I'm sitting at the computer and working something out. Say I'm just working out a song, but struggling over a bass line, if I put on another song that I'm into at the moment, I find myself just wanting to imitate what I'm listening to. Either in just a melody, or a drum line, or a song composition; something minor, or something in its entirety. This only ends up in frustration because I'm placing a comparison which ends up in my questioning my own methods, abilities, ideas... anything, really.

Where things get interesting is where we join the two ideas of indifference and isolation. The odd little occurrences in life where things seem "fated" to happen, or where things just click into place in an odd but convenient manner, well, they feel like they happen all the time. I feel content with just about everything. But could having a common plane indifference lead me to believe that minor, perhaps even common events flow together better than they have ever before? Has setting no standards for everything lent itself to this state? If so, well, where's the harm in that? I may have just wandered upon the resurrection of a child-like mentality, which I hear is pretty well sought after. Except unlike children, I don't believe in much.

The weight carried with the words "growing up" and "maturity" is simply amazing. Being mature, or grown up, is also extremely subjective. I'm convinced that very few people do in fact "grow up," but instead just grow old caught up in all the little details that go into "growing up." The little details I feel like I've abandoned, though I'm far from announcing myself as "mature." I'm not worried at all about any rites of passage; no rush to graduate, get a real job, move out and get my own place. Never wanted a raise a little family. I make relationships out of friendships, and those are kept to a minimum. I guess I just live for hedonism, but only loosely, because I'm only relying on myself to arrive at the sensation of pleasure.

I've clearly had to write too much for school in the past few weeks. And to think that that this all started out because I was frustrated, but hearing a deer walk through the woods outside my window made me feel happy. Because I just wanted to have a drink and listen to some records I haven't gotten around to. Because I read someone else's words.

And for the record, I don't know anything about, or really care about Henry Rollins. Maybe someday I'll look into him, but it's not at all a priority (however the more I think about it, from typing it out, the more curiosity peaks.) The only exposure I've really had to him was back in high school when Ashley played this spoken word piece of his, set over a Nine Inch Nails song where he rambled on about feeling different and spending all your time alone in your room. Well Henry, just look at me now.

Oh my, yes, for some reason I have agreed to the big family brunch this holiday; an awkward clusterfuck buffet in a town I don't much care for. I have the option to sleep through it, been up for almost twenty hours now, but I've opted for coffee and pineapple instead. Not sure why but I wanted to make a post, keep some electrons moving and a momentum paced. I had a wonderful aimless night, last night. I'm going to know Akron, Cuyahoga Falls, and a bit of Kent way too well come summer. Conspire for nothing, plan for nothing, expect nothing, desire little, need less. I'm coming out, actually, am out of my annual breakdown, and in this moment I don't even remember what it was all about. I feel like I have nothing but time, and no pressure to use it up.

Early jazz and big band, and classical music through the sunrise. It's magical. I'm shaking off comparisons and definitions, and I try not to judge, but oh well. Oscar Wilde and a awkward car ride await. I'm pretty delirious already, I feel hallucinations brewing up as I type. There aren't enough hours in the day anymore.

I don't read old entries, I let sleeping dogs rest. Sometimes the beasts are too threatening to look in the eye, sometimes they were never there at all. I found a way to remove the teeth marks, bruises and scars. Healed over, or just withdrawn, the palette clean and the burden less intense. You can't catch the breeze, but you can enjoy the stir in your hair, the selected scene played on repeat.

Just breathe, and try to get some sleep. Dream and hope and remember and live, all in your own way. Love as you've learned to. Everything by your own accord. Accept and continue, continue and prosper.

Now we see a moment's difference, and later those differences will all be the same, and if we're lucky, new ones will keep replacing.

I'll write you a song to thank you for this.

I had a snap realization of being in the midst of an estranged ten year anniversary. I don't know if I'd say that this is my past catching up to me, but it definitely feels like something is standing right behind me. More than likely it's myself, coming full circle or something trite like that.

23 has brought me to a lot of realizations, and 13 was just the prelude to everything I'm pulling myself out of. It's weird, really, that in ten years after the fact I'm desiring to be the awkward-but-overtly-kind-geeky-vaguely-goth-but-just-really-weird-by-natural-causes kid I started off as, all ready to grow up and face the world and figure things out. Not that I'm literally trying to revert to pre-puberty, just some universal themes. I'd really like to re-figure some of those things out, hell, I'm even tempted to say there's somethings I'd rather still be blissfully ignorant about!

I've been questioning regret. I've stood firm for so long that I have no regrets, that I wouldn't change anything because of all these supposed "lessons" I got. But is there really anything noble in that? Not that I'm glorifying regretful people. It's just, maybe it would be okay to say that, hey, I regret most of my being 18. I regret being naive with relationships, I regret having unprotected sex, I regret moving in in a months times, I regret being so adamant about 'discovering myself' but really only being hormonally imbalanced, I regret being easily influenced, I regret putting off ending it for so long, I regret not listening, I regret making others hurt, even though it seems somehow fated to have happened that way, I regret holding fast hope for a silly dream, the smell of lavender, I regret the money wasted, the cigarettes smoked, the laughs, smiles, tears, and all the happy fucking memories that come back when I'm lonely or nostalgic or getting drunk to ignore it.

If I were to have regrets, which I'm still not sure if I do, or want to, I know they would be there in every friendship and relationship since 13.

Anymore, I'm really not good with people. Really, really not good. It's almost like it's getting out of control, and even worse, most of the time I'm stand off-ish just being me. The direct and indirect "Aaron is dick" count has been through the roof lately. Sometimes I catch myself, realizing that I just said something that was misinterpreted, but I don't even bother to clarify myself. Sometimes all I have to do is not say hi to a friend of a friend. Sometimes it's all me and my intentional actions and I just don't care because I'm just as bitter and hurt and scared as everyone else, even after all this time... And sometimes it's them, for the exact same reason and I just don't want to hear about it anymore. Sometimes we just grow apart, and it's tragic, but still not surprising. Sometimes they can't go away fast enough.

And that's what's worse, is that this is probably just something that almost every single person goes through in their life at some point, that I'm just following the same biological track as everyone else. That shit is really aggravating, really really aggravating. It's probably just existential angst, or something, but being un-individualized with my little crises it's just the pits.

I wonder if I'm better off for just giving up on conventional love, or if I'm missing out by not chasing my tail anymore. That was completely rhetorical, that validity of that being a questions didn't last long enough for me to finish typing it;I feel so much better off. No more laying in bed imaging someone there to hold me, to fantasize that we can fix all the pain away, to think sex would be worth having, and that forever was an applicable adjective to anything, and that someday I wouldn't get bored and leave. More moments of my life for the potential "regretful" bin.

I'm trying to rewire a bunch of things in my brain, mostly a lot of concepts that have been around since I've been born, since we've all been born, on what generates a happy, valid, acceptable existence. I hate blanket judgments, and I've been going over all the theories I've come across, or came up with myself. A lot of it bleeds together, most of it is a bit black or white, generally speaking.

I thought writing would help, but it's just opening up more doors. Happy anniversary, I guess a little bit of everything in me gets to... celebrate. Reading what I wrote makes me feel crazy. Legitimate crazy.

Even if you wanted to, even if you could...

Piles and piles, and all the things that they could have been, instead just wasted. Replacing the Y factor for X, and replacing all else with it; just one.

Wrestling with nostalgia of summers, three years ago, six, and twelve. Just air and stars, stories and soundtracks; all alone or with a friend. They've gone on now, at an arm's length or for miles. The perspective seems lighter the next year around, and I roll over and face the wall. Sometimes I look at the now, follow the trail backwards and just wonder. With some it breaks my heart, some make me feel smug, and some are simply shameful. But in summer there's only the best memories, and all the antics of growing up don't seem to exist; there's only days and only nights, that bleed into each other. Empty packs of cigarettes, cool grass underfoot, phone calls, meet ups, dancing, drinking, pavement. City lights or country roads, anywhere will do, and anywhere did.

I don't want to see you in a yesterday.

I want to try, but I don't know what I'm going for.

I'm enjoying living under my means more than I've ever at or above. I'm enjoying being in a couple of singles. I'm enjoying nothing but spur of the moment every day. I'm enjoying having to save up and pine over something every day. I'm enjoying things being basic. I guess it's like an echo of childhood, I don't have to deal with boyfriends or sex or material things or he said she said or what anyone thinks. I just wake up and do the day, then repeat.

Ever since I found out about it, I realized Taoism is really onto something.

Whereas I would typically be making a chemically imbalanced 4am freewrite post, I'm going to do this "16 things about me" crap (for Jesse, mostly) instead.

1. I'm a gay asexual with a passionate disdain for the gay "community." It's really a 'don't even get me started!' situation. Kind of like religion...

2. On the Richard Dawkins scale, I'm a 6 point atheist. Just like everyone else I'm guilty of a god-shaped hole in my head.

3. This will probably rock the boat, but hear me out; as much as I value all my friends, I view them all as replaceable, as history has proven to me over and over. Not them personally (for the most part), but them as friend 'figures.' Some people bounce from relationship to relationship, I do it with friendships.

4. Sometimes I view my mind and body as nothing more than an assembly of medical conditions and, more importantly, disorders.

5. I hate movies, TV, and the internet when they become a distraction instead of a tool. I'm guilty of it too, from time to rare time, but the cultural obsession with all three only fuels my negative disposition and views.

6. Fanatics ruin my interests for me.

7. The less contact I have with other people, the more I like myself.

8. 'Nostalgic' is one of my favorite emotion.

9. I only feel creative in practical situations, which is unspeakably infuriating.

10. My fickle and addictive/obsessive personality may be my least favorite trait about myself, but it allows my horizons to perpetually expand. It's a love/hate relationship.

11. I honestly and sincerely regret nothing in my life; I wouldn't change a thing. That's not to say I'm proud of everything I've done in my life.

12. I'm uncontrollably and very easily influenced by those closest to me. More subconscious actions that I don't like about myself.

13. Silly and impractical 'drama' is the quickest way to push me away. Not listening to advice and making cyclical mistakes will lower my opinion of you.

14. When people tell me I'm intimidating, or a dick/asshole (etc.?) it really baffles me, even though it vaguely makes sense. It then makes me really question myself.

15. I romanticize self-destruction.

16. "Drawing Blood" set my standards so high that they're probably impractical. All romantic fantasies I have are deeply inspired by details in that book. 'You and me against the world' has been my most favorite theme in everything since my first read.


This was awkwardly fun.

A friend and I started a band. It's fucking official. Songs in progress.
There's odd sampling, 8 bits, circuit bending, high bpm, and lots of other treats.
Instruments used are the "Beat Blaster©" and "Awesometron©."
Hardstyle chip-tune glitch trance noise?

Whatever... it's cool.

In approximately one week I've acquired about fifty new albums, a lifetime record for bank of new goods to just sit on and explore one by one. It's always been one of the happiest feelings for me; new music, just waiting for a listen. It doesn't even matter if it doesn't turn out to be that good, which with this batch will undoubtedly happen from my grabbing things on a whim, or for barely any reason at all. But I keep going to back to how lovely it would be for another pair of ears to explore with. Art school romantic, could I borrow a piece of charcoal? Let's meet at the coffee machine after class, I got like an hour to kill before my next starts. Yeah, it's the worst ever, but it's all we've got.

Winter is taking and taking. The footprints fill up quickly, vanished by morning when I'm out scraping the ice off my windshield. The usher is begging for a raise for the hefty workload, and I've been paying under the table for all the overtime. Worthless ramblings from a teenage diary.

Twenty-three years later and I'm adventurous, amused at the shy little schoolboy with the bleeding nose. Why is everyone else still standing still? Laying down? Fucking it all up already. They never saw the brightside to my mess through the inches of dust settled on their eyelashes. Could explain my silence. A year of goodbyes, shoelaces burned to their tongues. Well, maybe.

I wonder wouldn't it be nice, then I have to stop and remind myself how you grew to be miles away, and how much I hate to be on the receiving end (even though I'd never act on it myself((... again(((?))). "You're too beautiful to fuck" and it shook me that someone else could say such a thing. Sure I'll be setting myself up for disappointment, but there's not much else one can be set up for anymore. I feel like clawing out of a mess anyway. Now to find step 1.

In ritual we took an hour, collected the smoothest stones by the river side, and dreamed aloud the trials and joys of what laid ahead, teasing our fingertips as the world spun just barely on their surfaces. Black ribbons and the clatter of big cities, towers of light and nectars so pure they blistered the throat on the way down. A smoke filled bedroom, low lit and the deep pulse of sound. Thumping, bouncing, extracting. Late night whispers, secrets and shadows. And everything that could have been.

We'd follow the river until it emptied in the lake, desolate, untouched except for a dated pier, surprisingly sturdy. We cast wishes on every stone and sent them skittering across the surface. Thumping, bouncing, sinking. Romanticizing the lips of strangers, curtains and moonlight. Familiarity in something so new, so untouched. There was nothing there by arms that seemed to be waiting, and what we knew as home was the only place the world was so unforgiving. Anywhere but here, and any time but now. We're only waiting.

We both left, and I was the only one who returned. I wonder if you wonder, and at one point I thought I knew. Maybe you are the one who got it right. My feet slip into the water. Compromise, is that my only hope here? Or have I been compromising this entire time, up until this point? My knees slip into the water. What's left here for me now? A lake built on childhood naivety, and a hole in my heart where dreams die unfulfilled? My hips slip into the water. 'Oh god,' I think, 'I've had it wrong this entire time.' And I knew was hollow, and everything was grey. Steel and concrete, and the abandon of a dead end. My neck slips into the water. Impatience.

I had nothing but time to collect the stones, and recount the wishes blessed upon them. I end with all that could have been, just where everything began. I filled my pockets with stones, fill my socks and my shirt, fill anything that can hold them. My head slips under the water. I don't remember if I fought it.

Blue walls through the haze, as sardonic in their representation as to my memory. Unrequited; contrary for a moment, thorough thereafter. The slow circling of a painted dragon, hours leaking together, and now how it seems so poignant. Night to day, skin to skin, and the sweet eclipse of textures melding into a failure of fruition. Meditation leads me no farther as a test of faith, and so in a worship of lack and absence I accept the misguiding as self-inflicted, a fancy and a whim that only acted as an interceptor. The only beneficiary is the one who cherishes that which is harrowing, the tormented artist whose well ran dry and reenactments for the sake of nostalgia, like sacrifices to a sky god, bring that rain that may fill the well again. Memory may be a pestilence, and with time, perhaps a cure.

Seizing the opportunity, relishing the fact that this is the only moment we have for the Now, and acting on it. I continue along my dissent, ever the more gleeful each new day. The ultimate motive; living for this life, not twiddling it away for some supposed thereafter, for now is all the proof one needs. Reconstructing hedonism into a personal context, away from the negative connotations, which tend to taken out of context anyway. No more deceiving, no grand schemes to fall back up or gamble into.

I suppose this may be some sort of New Year's resolve, then let us indulge if only for the sake of tradition.

Soothsaying for recreation to make you appear, practical and fragile in fabricated faith. Pages and pages to focus, music to traverse. Just another something for tonight now, just a little twinkle in the sky.

How now, by moonlight and vines, by the cherry tree past the sacred lake. Ghosts in a rose scented haze, brittle paper and bitter cold. Something to remember, something to expect. Projecting slides to a screen to far away to see, but know they're being seen, focused and sharp; the message well received.

So tomorrow starts now, based on dug up memories and fleeting daydreams, somehow twisting to bend into the strict shapes of right angles and symmetrical curves. It seems I fold rather easy, knees buckling under the weight of some lavish fear that I can rationalize but not alter. I breathe it all in, I let it all go, I try and I try and I try.

This is fucked up. Fucked up.

Nothing happened here, but wires never held fast dreams.

Friday night we laid in your room listening to records waiting to feel our consciousness expand. The paint on the walls peeled around us as records spun, reeling in strips of cream and grey. I watched you without blinking for hours, every meticulous reflex of the muscles in your body shifting and stirring. We heard waves crash outside the windows as the flood gathered at our heels. We dove out the window and were already under water. Thousands of strings danced around your face as you dipped and rolled, billowing. We drifted tangled in each other, breathing through our pores, through one another. We rested on the sandy floor and watched rays of light poke through the ripples, plucked like harp strings, vibrations making tiny pulses in the water. We closed our eyes and held tight, then just let the currents lead us away. We landed back on your floor, gasping in air as an unfamiliar habit. We made a blanket cocoon and slumbered with hardwood paneling and dust bunnies.

Saturday night we hiked to the abandoned farm behind your house and indulged in scavenged chemicals and bottles of cheap wine. The sky was clear and the moon was bright enough to see everything perfectly. We took off our clothes and ran naked through the woods until we were out of breath. We noticed the dirt stains on our feet when we noticed we were lost. You closed your eyes and spun on one heel, a finger pointed out ahead of you, and you grabbed my hand and ran in the direction you stopped on. A cacophony of laughter chased after us and we swore we saw faces for just a second before they hid behind the tress. You led us back to the clearing and the barn and we danced around it, swaying like tall grass in a breeze. We fell asleep under the stars with leaves in our hair and sweat on our bodies.

Sunday night I called you from my bedroom floor and we talked straight through the witching hour. We played records for each other and you read your favorite poems. You fell asleep first so I just listened to you breathing with my eyes closed and mimicked my breathing to yours. I smoked three cigarettes to the sounds of your slumber, then wrapped my limbs around my blanket and fell asleep with the phone to my ear.

You are not to worship false idols, but what have you been dying for? Your constructs are only constraints, your longing that chains you, shackled by your own two hands. And now the breath to struggle has escaped you, exasperated and emaciated.

No winds blow here, and the unchanging landscape stretches on forever. The ground withered, cracked, and dusty, the sky bleak as stone. The thought that it could come crashing down on us never came across. We lost count of the days fading into each other, blending like open wounds bleeding into each other. Each day I get worse.

I tried to pass the time by over-thinking, analyzing, observing. My companions show no signs of changing, no effects of boredom or any sway of emotion. I thought ill of them for failing to grasp the severity of the situation, for having no instincts for survival, just aimlessly playing like children.

Then comes the breaking point, inevitable and poingnant. Some shatter, some repair.

Over-thinking gets me nowhere; the best case scenario is that I'm standing still, the worst that I'm working backwards. So I stopped, and smiled, because when you smile the world smiles with you. As ridiculous as it sounds, I think it just might be true.

Maybe it's a matter of trust, and just who can you trust nowadays? 1 is the number that comes to mind right away, and with that I feel grateful I have that much. There are some with none, and there are plenty with people that allude themselves to thinking they have more, but I fear most have hardly any. And just why is that? Well the answer is obvious, if you're aware that you're only human, and thus subject to the human condition. It kind of makes me sick.

Questions are starting to boil under the surface, more so than ever, and I've always been on to question; innate curiosity being an object of pride within myself. Of course I'm only throwing myself into it, and it's only to be expected. I wonder what I'm getting myself into, what kind of radical shift could possibly come from it? I'm a bit afraid of the possibilities.

And that's something that's been coming up more as well; my fear. What am I afraid of, and why? I finding myself wondering if something I truly believe I desire(d) is actually something I'm quite afraid of. I think I may be afraid of opening myself up, terrified actually, given the amount of betrayal and for a lack of better term, hurt. But again, human condition, can I really hold it against anyone? Do I even? No, I don't, but still I hesitate.

Then there's also the chance that I'm just feeding into the fear of the one I'm chasing, or that could at least have role, minor or more. I find myself not knowing how I feel, which is very strange because it's been a long long while since I've felt things without being 100% certain of the source. Aside from a vague idea that is, and that's where I am now, vagueness and wondering. A terrible limbo.

I don't even know if I care. Well, no, I know I care, but I let myself become numb to it. It's a completely subconscious act, which is as relieving as it is frustrating. I'm protecting myself, I know, however it could only be holding me back from what matters most. I'm keeping myself from what I want, because it's complicated, and fucked up, and just a mess. A mess that I want. A mess that I just may not. Ha, who am I trying to kid?

It's all part of living; intense and tragic, tragic and wonderful. I'm all over the map, and at any given second I'm eligible for a transfer. But I'm hardly thinking about it anymore, and I know why, but I hardly like it at all. Yeah, I detest it. Give me my pining, give me my wanting.

Someone once told me, not all too terribly long ago, that I "worship lack and absence." But absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not? And the emotion is my needle, the dreams and daydreams my heroin. I'm an addict, relishing in it as I wither away and "reality" blurs and fades away. What's in this world for me, besides such things, anyways? Not a goddamn thing.

But what's valuable one day seems as nothingness another, as I struggle with bleakness and a lack of optimism, a question of the ultimate fate of each and every one of us. Art for art's sake seems logical one moment, and a complete waste another. Those cloudy moments don't come often though, the alcohol either keeps them away or provokes them. Or maybe that has nothing to do with it at all, and it's just the free time, picking away at me from the inside. I'm still trying to find that happy medium, but what makes me happy is a perpetually shifting object, solid one day, liquid another, and sometimes as obvious as the visual appearance of air.

Am I still holding out for someone to save me, complete me, or just compliment me? I think I know, but there are parts of me that I don't know. And isn't that something to sometimes be a stranger to yourself!

My ultimate resolve, that I plant to attempt, is that I'm going to try focusing more. Use the path that got me here to take to me to the end. I guess I've got to commit for commitment. I don't know what else I can do.

"I had seven faces
Thought I knew which one to wear
But I'm sick of spending these lonely nights
Training myself not to care"

Take me to your bed and let's learn how to live without these chemicals anymore. Teach me what's worth while anymore in a place where They make reality harsh, make it sting like an infection. Maybe there's a heart behind all these wires, maybe there's a voice that was silenced. Now It echos in the language of light, too dim and too weak to be seen in the cold black shadow.

What do think is worth living for? What makes you open your eyes everyday, makes you smile, makes you laugh? No, please, let's skip those trivial Things. Look beyond, look inside. Are you unhappy, are you hollow?

Let's spend hours with questions that get us no where. But it was never about the destination, and maybe that's what They forgot. Maybe we all forgot, and maybe we'll never remember. Just what is quality, anyway?

In pure ideal, what would you be doing? Are you alone, are you paired, are you multiplied? What's the source, and what's its limit? Is it synthetic? Are you?

We all know the mirror, but who knows there's a hammer? Will you wield it with me, could you commit to something this grand? Don't think I know what I'm doing; I'm just as scared as you, it's just that I learned to speak first. We're all cowards, you know.

I've been spending hours with questions that get me now where. Having hypothetical conversations, wishing you were here to wax with me. And simply wishing you were here, under my sheets with the words under our tongues.

I wish you knew...

The rain has been having an affair with the night for days now, slipping in, leaving fast, with only a faint scent lingering once the sun rises. It's funny how rainy weather can ruin a day, but make a night even more calming.

Things are coming back, more specifically people, in threes. Not that anyone has necessarily been gone, but things are feeling great again, reminding me good days past and good days to come. And for once I'm not anxious, I'm just happily riding along. But that's not to say that I'm not itching to make a visit or two, or that I don't find myself thinking about someone more and more often. Even so, I guess I know what's what, and I'm comfortable aimless wandering the aisles before I have to get back home.

I am pleased across the board, and that's just something I haven't been able to say in a while; right where it belongs. Nothing like the feeling of everything clicking, snapping, falling into place.

I'm finding that I'm imaging myself in people's bedrooms a lot. I guess that's always been a comfort zone, and something I'll miss when we all grow up and are no longer restricted to mere rooms, but entire houses or apartments. Hopefully no one will mind hanging around in their bedroom, as opposed to a living room, because everything is just so much more concentrated in the bedroom. I can feel their essence in an almost full effect there, everything projected and staining the ceiling and walls in hidden patterns. Flowing, almost breathing, just as they are inches away from me. No where else is such an extension, aside from a shelter made from flesh against flesh, breath and heartbeat aligning, synchronizing.

And there I go again. How will I ever be able to keep my hands to myself?

Circling again, oh dear, when will you learn these ferocious skies? Red is an omen, a murder is a witness, and together wings will wither to skin, to the muscle, to the bone. Deliverance! Deliverance! But only to the righteous, and you know you the viscousness of only looking up. Descending, igniting. Ashes; throw them around. Smear your face, blur out your eyes. Now who stands, and now who f-

Don't say you never heard a voice, I've been screaming for years. And what for? Even after all this time we're worse than we began, and strangers aren't in envy for their ignorance. If I never saw the tabletop see your elbows, if I never wrote you back, if I never said c-

Miles of silence, I've ripped the phone out of the wall. Photographs peeled and dissolved in a bucket in my backyard. I threw the remains in the river. And now when will you call me your home? I changed the locks, in the sickening cliche way bitter lovers part, in the way we never were. Another notch in the wall, another brick to the head, another split in my s-